


Promises to Keep

by Sholio



Category: White Collar
Genre: Blood, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 10:36:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/pseuds/Sholio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal is missing in the rain. Written for Whump-a-Palooza on the whitecollarhc LJ community.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promises to Keep

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Правила и обещания](https://archiveofourown.org/works/515289) by [aqwt101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqwt101/pseuds/aqwt101)



It's not until the takedown is over that Peter notices Neal is missing.

"Anyone seen Neal?" he calls, and the team, well used to this by now, look up from handcuffing antiquities smugglers to respond with a chorus of "Not lately, boss" and "Sorry, no".

There's a part of Peter -- a tiny suspicious part -- that wonders if Neal took advantage of the opportunity to make off with one of the priceless artifacts they've just recovered, but he discards the idea immediately. Maybe a year ago he would have wondered that in all sincerity. A year ago, it would have been a valid fear. But not now, not after the U-boat treasure and everything that went down with it.

No, Neal was here and now he's not, and Peter is more afraid _for_ Neal than afraid of what he might have done. It got pretty chaotic for a while, and there were some bullets flying around. The idea that Neal might be bleeding out behind a crate somewhere pushes him into action. He doesn't want to make a big production out of it -- not until he's sure -- so he corners Diana. He doesn't have to say it. She doesn't ask. She just says, "I'll take the warehouse, boss, if you take the loading dock."

"Oh, I get to search in the rain, huh?"

"He's your partner," Diana says with a smirk.

Peter turns up his collar and steps out into a cold early-winter rain. He keeps a hand on his gun and all his senses sharp. They're pretty sure they've accounted for all the smugglers, but there could be others they don't know about. Or Neal could be meeting someone who has nothing to do with what's going on inside, running some sort of con of his own ... there is just no way to know. Peter wants to slap Neal upside the head for worrying him, but only after he pats him down and makes sure he's okay.

"Neal?" he calls quietly. Neal has the anklet off for this job. But there's more than one way to find a wayward CI. Peter slides a hand into his pocket and punches the preset for Neal's phone with damp fingers. A moment later, he hears it ring, somewhere in the gray canyons between the warehouses.

The sound leads him through oil-slicked puddles to a shape crouched against the side of the building. Peter kneels cautiously beside him, unsure what he's dealing with here -- a freakout? Something worse?

"You missed all the fun in there."

"What?" Neal says, and Peter, alarmed, places firm but gentle hands on Neal's shoulders, tilting him back so that Peter can see him better. Neal is shivering, his hair slicked down with rain, water dripping off his eyelashes. And the front of his shirt is sodden with something darker than just water.

"Son of a _bitch._ " Peter has already dialed Diana before he's consciously registered that he's doing so. "Found Caffrey," he says over the top of her hello. "We're in the alley behind the warehouse. I need EMTs back here."

"On it," she says, and hangs up. No questions. He can always count on Diana.

Peter shrugs out of his wool coat -- the rain is sharply cold, soaking through his shirt sleeves. He bundles it around Neal's shoulders, and Neal looks up at him, blinking the rain off his lashes. 

"Peter?" he says faintly.

"Yeah. Mind if I take a look?"

He peels back Neal's ice-cold fingers, covered in blood striped with rainwater, and Neal lets him. Neal's shirt is plastered to his chest and stomach, dark with blood and water. There is definitely an injury of some kind under there, but Peter doesn't want to go poking around trying to figure out what. Neal's hand drifts back to the upper right quadrant of his chest, and Peter covers Neal's cold fingers with his own, applying pressure. Neal hisses in pain.

"Shot?" Peter asks.

"I don't know," Neal mumbles, and then: "No. Stabbed."

Several of the antiquities thieves had been waving knives around -- they'd been using them to slice open the canvas-wrapped packages. "When?" Peter asks. "When we burst in?" Damn it, he'd been working so hard to keep Neal out of the line of fire, he hadn't been focusing on danger from other angles. "Why didn't you _say_ something?"

Neal thinks about this, blinking again. "Would've distracted you," he says at last, and leans into Peter.

So instead, he'd apparently started going into shock and wandered out into the rain. Damn it. "You know," Peter says, looking down at the dark rain-plastered top of Neal's head, resting against his shoulder, "I know you're still new to this whole teamwork thing, but it's okay to say something when you're bleeding. Really, it is."

"You were ..." Neal hesitates, losing and regaining his train of thought. "Busy," he says finally. "Best thing, to keep you safe. Don't want you looking at me ... distracted ... and getting shot."

Peter is starting to shiver in the rain himself, but warmth suffuses him anyway, and he tightens his grip on Neal's cold fingers. "There are exceptions, though. This would be one of them."

"So many rules," Neal murmurs into Peter's shoulder.

"Rule number one is don't get killed."

"That's a hard one," Neal mumbles.

Peter's not quite sure what to say to that; he wants to snap, and he wants to scold, but he knows from experience that none of it works on Neal -- it just rolls off, leaving Neal with that same grin and that same tendency to do reckless things when his heart tells him to. And then there's no opportunity, because the alley is filling up with paramedics. Peter stands back and stays out of the way, and paces the gurney back to the ambulance. Someone hands him his coat, with water streaming from its folds. That person is Diana, and she grips his arm. 

"We've got things covered here, boss. Go."

Peter wonders when he became so transparent. "The scene --"

"Secured."

"Someone needs to arrange transport for the evidence --"

"Done." She squeezes his arm and lets go, giving him a little push towards the ambulance, where the EMTs are about to close the door. "Call us from the hospital."

So then he's inside, the door slams behind him, and someone hands him a towel to dry off. Peter roughly rub-dries his wet hair but his attention is all for Neal, who is chalk-white with an oxygen mask over his face. The blood-soaked shirt has been cut away to apply pressure dressings that are rapidly saturating. One of the EMTs throws a blanket over Neal's legs, but he's still shivering. One of his hands reaches out -- questing --

Peter slides forward, trying not to get in the way, and catches Neal's hand, lowers it back to the blanket. Neal's fingers curl automatically around his. Peter's not sure if Neal is conscious of his surroundings, but if so ... _Next time be more careful,_ he wants to say, but it's pointless -- pointless because men like the two of them, himself and Neal, make up the rules on the fly, depending on what's right for the situation. He can't honestly say that he'd have done anything different than what Neal did.

"Just stay alive," he says quietly, and the words are out before he knows he's going to say them. "The other rules don't matter. That one does."

Neal's eyes are shut, but he squeezes Peter's hand. Neal doesn't lie to him, so Peter takes it as a promise.


End file.
